Friday, March 26, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
My first half marathon
Not so bad.
5:45AM wake up. Bathroom-check! Standard Nature's Valley granola bar and cup of tea. Bathroom- check!! Re-read a race day advice email on the course. Take it easy in the park. Looked at the course again. Made last minute decisions with MJ on outfits, bibs, meeting points, etc. Watch or no watch? No watch. Good. Last minute coaching, Don't go out too fast. Jogged over to 95th St and 5th in a sweater that doesn't fit me anymore and I was meaning to donate. Left the sweater behind, regrettably because after Mary Wittenberg's plethora of announcements and speeches I started to get cold. I was in the second corral. I had no reason to be there, everyone around me had raced before...probably really well. Everyone around me was wearing a Garmin. The good one with the GPS. I know cause I sell them.
Horn goes off and I start to jog to the start line. I can't believe I am running the same race as Olympic athletes. Personal mantra- keep your emotions in check. When I watch marathons I get so inspired I cry. I see the little kid shouting Run Mommy!! and I get the lump in my throat. But now I'm running and that lump is blocking my airwaves and I need the salt from those tears goddammit. SO I have to NOT get excited, NOT get emotional. I have my medical info on bib. Next to Mitral Valve Regurgitation I should have put: Tendency to have emotion produced panic attacks when inspired by signs and little children.
I go out too fast.
I slow it down after 2 miles. More because I don't want to hear it from MJ later when he looks at my splits. My hands start to swell. They swell so bad I have to put my engagement rock-of-a-diamond into my running shorts pocket. They swell so bad they look HILARIOUS. They stay that way for the rest of the race. I don't understand why. At mile 4 MJ joins me for the rest of Central Park. He runs 6 miles or so with my backpack on giving me water and affirmations. I make him take the subway at Times Square because I want to finish this, "by myself." Running through Times Square in that state of mind reminds me of the feeling I got in Taos when Jill Lauren and I were doing some yoga in that canyon: I may be 5'2 and 105 with my shoes on, but I felt the same size as the skyscrapers around me. I legit felt taller. Times Square looks different when running, there is a quaintness it adopts as the runner says, "I just matched you in craziness, bitch."
I almost had an asthma attack from the excitement. My breath shortened and I tried to ignore all the people and focus on the sky. Haile Gebreselassie of Ethiopia was probably not used to the ravine that is 7th Ave, and actually had an asthma attack and pulled out of the race. He has never lost on American soil.
West Side Highway. I consider pushing it and making qualifying time. 4 miles left and 30 minutes to qualify!! I could have done it easily...if it was my first 4 miles. The debate was do I push it or not. Then a man jogged up to me and said, "A little advice. You are getting tired and you're swinging your arms across your body like crazy. Forward and back, forward and back, don't forget your form." Then he sprinted away. I have no idea who this man was necessarily. Maybe the ghost of Steve Prefontaine. But he saved my ass. I fixed my form, took it easy and enjoyed the sunshine as my body slowly broke down.
I kept pace but the last 3 miles were hard. HARD. My legs felt heavy, I felt an ache in my chest that was my heart saying, Screw you I'm tired Dude. (My heart has a California accent.) Like a snare drum in my chest. Not a kick drum. A nasty snare. And I begged for Mile markers and the finished. I ran through my mantras, Always be passing (I was passing no one at this point, my legs wouldn't do it), Get them on the hills (Shit, there are no hills), and I resorted to my last one: Just finish. Over and over and over. The last 400m, I thought Just once around the track, just like the old relays. Then at 200m I saw the finish line and just sprinted it home at 1:44:19. I don't know where, I don't know where my legs got the juice to sprint and what I perceive as a print might have been akin to a motivated gr I wanted to run it in under 2 hours, and I did so with gumption. No GU, no power bars or salt tablets, one two moments of hydration at Miles 5 and 6.
1:44:19
7:58 pace (I wanted it under 8! Yes!)
Out of 557 women in my age group (20-24) I came in 57!!
Out of 6,071 women, I came in 578!!
I didn't have negative splits, but I that is a matter of training. I built my base and I intend to CRUSH the next half.
After the race MJ and I had a big brunch at Community where I crushed this HUGE omelette so hardcore that the waiter actually laughed at me. My body is so sore and I am limping all around and can't walk down stairs, but I feel great. I got an extreme Gift Certificate from MJ to a spa for a massage and I can't wait to use it.
All in all I'm happy with my performance and ready for next time. Stay tuned for race day pictures.
5:45AM wake up. Bathroom-check! Standard Nature's Valley granola bar and cup of tea. Bathroom- check!! Re-read a race day advice email on the course. Take it easy in the park. Looked at the course again. Made last minute decisions with MJ on outfits, bibs, meeting points, etc. Watch or no watch? No watch. Good. Last minute coaching, Don't go out too fast. Jogged over to 95th St and 5th in a sweater that doesn't fit me anymore and I was meaning to donate. Left the sweater behind, regrettably because after Mary Wittenberg's plethora of announcements and speeches I started to get cold. I was in the second corral. I had no reason to be there, everyone around me had raced before...probably really well. Everyone around me was wearing a Garmin. The good one with the GPS. I know cause I sell them.
Horn goes off and I start to jog to the start line. I can't believe I am running the same race as Olympic athletes. Personal mantra- keep your emotions in check. When I watch marathons I get so inspired I cry. I see the little kid shouting Run Mommy!! and I get the lump in my throat. But now I'm running and that lump is blocking my airwaves and I need the salt from those tears goddammit. SO I have to NOT get excited, NOT get emotional. I have my medical info on bib. Next to Mitral Valve Regurgitation I should have put: Tendency to have emotion produced panic attacks when inspired by signs and little children.
I go out too fast.
I slow it down after 2 miles. More because I don't want to hear it from MJ later when he looks at my splits. My hands start to swell. They swell so bad I have to put my engagement rock-of-a-diamond into my running shorts pocket. They swell so bad they look HILARIOUS. They stay that way for the rest of the race. I don't understand why. At mile 4 MJ joins me for the rest of Central Park. He runs 6 miles or so with my backpack on giving me water and affirmations. I make him take the subway at Times Square because I want to finish this, "by myself." Running through Times Square in that state of mind reminds me of the feeling I got in Taos when Jill Lauren and I were doing some yoga in that canyon: I may be 5'2 and 105 with my shoes on, but I felt the same size as the skyscrapers around me. I legit felt taller. Times Square looks different when running, there is a quaintness it adopts as the runner says, "I just matched you in craziness, bitch."
I almost had an asthma attack from the excitement. My breath shortened and I tried to ignore all the people and focus on the sky. Haile Gebreselassie of Ethiopia was probably not used to the ravine that is 7th Ave, and actually had an asthma attack and pulled out of the race. He has never lost on American soil.
West Side Highway. I consider pushing it and making qualifying time. 4 miles left and 30 minutes to qualify!! I could have done it easily...if it was my first 4 miles. The debate was do I push it or not. Then a man jogged up to me and said, "A little advice. You are getting tired and you're swinging your arms across your body like crazy. Forward and back, forward and back, don't forget your form." Then he sprinted away. I have no idea who this man was necessarily. Maybe the ghost of Steve Prefontaine. But he saved my ass. I fixed my form, took it easy and enjoyed the sunshine as my body slowly broke down.
I kept pace but the last 3 miles were hard. HARD. My legs felt heavy, I felt an ache in my chest that was my heart saying, Screw you I'm tired Dude. (My heart has a California accent.) Like a snare drum in my chest. Not a kick drum. A nasty snare. And I begged for Mile markers and the finished. I ran through my mantras, Always be passing (I was passing no one at this point, my legs wouldn't do it), Get them on the hills (Shit, there are no hills), and I resorted to my last one: Just finish. Over and over and over. The last 400m, I thought Just once around the track, just like the old relays. Then at 200m I saw the finish line and just sprinted it home at 1:44:19. I don't know where, I don't know where my legs got the juice to sprint and what I perceive as a print might have been akin to a motivated gr I wanted to run it in under 2 hours, and I did so with gumption. No GU, no power bars or salt tablets, one two moments of hydration at Miles 5 and 6.
1:44:19
7:58 pace (I wanted it under 8! Yes!)
Out of 557 women in my age group (20-24) I came in 57!!
Out of 6,071 women, I came in 578!!
I didn't have negative splits, but I that is a matter of training. I built my base and I intend to CRUSH the next half.
After the race MJ and I had a big brunch at Community where I crushed this HUGE omelette so hardcore that the waiter actually laughed at me. My body is so sore and I am limping all around and can't walk down stairs, but I feel great. I got an extreme Gift Certificate from MJ to a spa for a massage and I can't wait to use it.
All in all I'm happy with my performance and ready for next time. Stay tuned for race day pictures.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
half
It is just another long Sunday run.
Only with thousands of people and cameras and bands.
And Deena Kastor.
And Gebreselassie.
I've got a belly full of pesto pasta, sweet potato fries, bread, a beer, and frozen yogurt. I hit all major categories of food. My unbelievable MJ got me a Spa Ja certificate for a post race massage. I'm ready! I may have a fever, a headache, and a flared up old dance injury in my foot but all in all, it is just another long Sunday run!
Tomorrow. Bright blue Lucy top and Track and Field white shorts. I'll be the girl smiling with a crinkled nose that says, "I want this race to end so I can go to the bathroom."
Now for some inspiration:
Only with thousands of people and cameras and bands.
And Deena Kastor.
And Gebreselassie.
I've got a belly full of pesto pasta, sweet potato fries, bread, a beer, and frozen yogurt. I hit all major categories of food. My unbelievable MJ got me a Spa Ja certificate for a post race massage. I'm ready! I may have a fever, a headache, and a flared up old dance injury in my foot but all in all, it is just another long Sunday run!
Tomorrow. Bright blue Lucy top and Track and Field white shorts. I'll be the girl smiling with a crinkled nose that says, "I want this race to end so I can go to the bathroom."
Now for some inspiration:
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Eat, pray, break something.
This is about traditions that celebrate embarkation.
One of my favorites is ship christening: an expensive bottle of champagne is broken (traditionally by a female) to bless a vessel's maiden voyage. Imagine for a second we christened our children in this method. It developed in the maritime glory days of the 1800s. If the bottle didn't break, it was a bad omen. The Camilla's bottle remained intact foreshadowing how later the intestines of its passengers did not; they all contracted a virus and blamed it on the bottle. The USS Maine had 16-year-old Alice Tracy Wilmerding, the granddaughter of the Naval Secretary successfully break the bottle over the hull in Brooklyn. That turned out awesome...the Maine is one of history's great naval blights.
One of the first films recorded by Thomas Edison, the burial of the Maine's victims:
Every 1st of the month, MJ wakes up to his vibrating phone alarm, holds it about 3cm from his de-spectacled eyes and says, "Oh! Rabbit, rabbit day." I thought this was one of those weird OCD things we held onto from childhood (I have one where I have to lift my hand over the trees while sitting in the passenger seat of the car). BUT, I Wikipediaed it and it is an old Anglo tradition that somehow snuck into various parts of our country, including Central Pennsylvania. It brings good luck apparently. I seriously don't understand why rabbits are lucky in this world. No matter what though, watching him say, "OH! rabbit rabbit" is a good way to start any month.
Some people start a journey with their right foot.
Some people tie dollar bills around their new car.
Hindus pray to Ganesha when starting something new. We did this in India the first day shooting the Masala Bhangra workout video. There was a statue of Ganesh placed on a plastic chair, surrounded by incense. A little ghetto, but no different than some of the makeshift altars in my childhood Catholic household that consisted of those 99 cent store glass candles with pictures of La Virgen. Som, our director, broke a coconut to symbolize how their are always arduous obstacles in our journeys. Also the importance of breaking our own inner hardness (represented in our ego), in order to let the nectar of fruition flow.
Last weekend during my teacher training, we informally prayed to Ganesh and between him and Lakshmi who watches over me (I'm convinced), I'm set to go. The only minor setback is that I don't really have a great picture of myself dancing Masala Bhangra. I cropped a picture from the photo shoot for New Women Magazine (Indian publication), and by GOD is it cheesy. Don't laugh:
Bitch, you laughed.
In my oneiric fantasies, I WANT to appear straight out of a Bollywood film, yes it is true. But I think I dreamed too hard and ended up as a 1970s Indian heroine. I even have the hair bump. Compare to photographs taken by Jordan Matter, some of the coolest shots of dancers I've ever seen, and I grew up as an avid New York City Ballet playbill collector.
The rest are just as inspiring.
Dear Ganesh and Lakshmi,
I know I am supposed to eliminate inner-ego in order to have a more pure journey as a teacher, BUT can you please open the opportunity for me to have a promotional picture where I look KICK ASS and less like an 8-year-old girl playing dress up. Thank you. I will bring lotus and marigolds to your temples next time I'm in the motherland.
Namaste,
Lizzie
One of my favorites is ship christening: an expensive bottle of champagne is broken (traditionally by a female) to bless a vessel's maiden voyage. Imagine for a second we christened our children in this method. It developed in the maritime glory days of the 1800s. If the bottle didn't break, it was a bad omen. The Camilla's bottle remained intact foreshadowing how later the intestines of its passengers did not; they all contracted a virus and blamed it on the bottle. The USS Maine had 16-year-old Alice Tracy Wilmerding, the granddaughter of the Naval Secretary successfully break the bottle over the hull in Brooklyn. That turned out awesome...the Maine is one of history's great naval blights.
One of the first films recorded by Thomas Edison, the burial of the Maine's victims:
Every 1st of the month, MJ wakes up to his vibrating phone alarm, holds it about 3cm from his de-spectacled eyes and says, "Oh! Rabbit, rabbit day." I thought this was one of those weird OCD things we held onto from childhood (I have one where I have to lift my hand over the trees while sitting in the passenger seat of the car). BUT, I Wikipediaed it and it is an old Anglo tradition that somehow snuck into various parts of our country, including Central Pennsylvania. It brings good luck apparently. I seriously don't understand why rabbits are lucky in this world. No matter what though, watching him say, "OH! rabbit rabbit" is a good way to start any month.
Some people start a journey with their right foot.
Some people tie dollar bills around their new car.
Hindus pray to Ganesha when starting something new. We did this in India the first day shooting the Masala Bhangra workout video. There was a statue of Ganesh placed on a plastic chair, surrounded by incense. A little ghetto, but no different than some of the makeshift altars in my childhood Catholic household that consisted of those 99 cent store glass candles with pictures of La Virgen. Som, our director, broke a coconut to symbolize how their are always arduous obstacles in our journeys. Also the importance of breaking our own inner hardness (represented in our ego), in order to let the nectar of fruition flow. Last weekend during my teacher training, we informally prayed to Ganesh and between him and Lakshmi who watches over me (I'm convinced), I'm set to go. The only minor setback is that I don't really have a great picture of myself dancing Masala Bhangra. I cropped a picture from the photo shoot for New Women Magazine (Indian publication), and by GOD is it cheesy. Don't laugh:
Bitch, you laughed.
In my oneiric fantasies, I WANT to appear straight out of a Bollywood film, yes it is true. But I think I dreamed too hard and ended up as a 1970s Indian heroine. I even have the hair bump. Compare to photographs taken by Jordan Matter, some of the coolest shots of dancers I've ever seen, and I grew up as an avid New York City Ballet playbill collector.
The rest are just as inspiring.
Dear Ganesh and Lakshmi,
I know I am supposed to eliminate inner-ego in order to have a more pure journey as a teacher, BUT can you please open the opportunity for me to have a promotional picture where I look KICK ASS and less like an 8-year-old girl playing dress up. Thank you. I will bring lotus and marigolds to your temples next time I'm in the motherland.
Namaste,
Lizzie
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
The census form should incorporate pictures like I do.
I'm pissed Michael wouldn't let me put "Indian" as my race on our Census form. We barely completed it due to the entertainment factor of possible false scenarios and hyperbolic living conditions:
Person 3
Last Name:
Fielder-Ewing
First Name:
Daphne
Age as of April 1st:
N/A possibly 7, which in dog years is like mid-40s or something.
Ethnicity:
12 in. Beagle (although there is debate on adulteration of this. Possible mix of Jack Russel Terrier, Chiwawa, Spaniel, wild deer.
How is Person 3 related to Person 1:
Strange love triangle.
Person 4:
Last Name:
Popowski
First Name:
Rob
Age:
21
Ethnicity:
Australian
How is Person 4 related to Person 1:
Occasional Lodger
SO TEMPTING. But alas, as we carefully insert the form into the return envelope and lick it close, MJ turns to me and says, "God we are such sell outs for filling this out correctly."
There was a time I would have flipped off the government in colorful prevarications, but the most controversial move I made was classifying myself as the "other" category of Biracial. I know I'll get a phone call about that one.
All-American family doing our patriotic duty. Go Bears!
Monday, March 15, 2010
Glimpse into my Saturday night.
This is from one of those deliriously tired moments this weekend, where I tried to take a picture, but it was already on video and a few milliseconds of one of the most incredible nights ever has been captured for posterity.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
When was the last time you explored an underground mall in Jackson Heights?
Inexcusable break from blog writing. Stemming only from how busy each day has become. Aside from work, half-marathon training, teacher training for Masala Bhangra and preparing for my first class, I'm also performing at a Fieldston School fundraiser at Pier 60 (approximately 800 people). Yikes. In preparation for this I have to get my sari altered. By this man:
His name is Abdul Majid and he is located of course in Jackson Heights (37th Ave, the Muslim section) in a basement mall filled with greenish fluorescent lighting next to a Bollywood movie/music store. People stared at me with the same blank, yet intense expression I got a lot in India. It is a mix of, "Why are you here?", "Are you going to buy something?", and "Are you going to exploit me, economically?"* I spent three nights in a hospital in Mumbai. I've paid my dues. I order meals by their real names, in Hindi, extra spicy. I am Indian. So naturally I walk around like I'm braided and bindi-ed. Like I'm Kareena Kapoor.
When Majid finally hobbles down the stairs to meet our business, I could barely understand him through his raspy horse voice and thick accent. Somehow I managed though my limited Bengali and straight-up guessing. He actually asked my mother permission when I requested he lower my neck line half an inch.
When he offered a pretty low price of 30 dollars, there came a moment where I knew I was supposed to haggle down to 20. I knew all the lines, "Are you crazy?! I could get this down the street for 15!" But instead I just said, "Sure, sounds great." A moment that obliterated any shred of Indian street cred I've accrued. I transitioned from Kareena Kapoor to Jennifer Love Hewitt more awkwardly than a 1970's Bollywood scene change.
You think of someone whiter than Jennifer Love Hewitt.
*I stole this line from Van Wilder 2: The Rise of Taj. When the white preppy Camfordian threatens Kal Penn during a fence-off by saying, "I'm going to do to you what my ancestors did to your ancestors years ago." To which Penn replies, "You're going to exploit me economically?" Great line in an otherwise trite movie.
His name is Abdul Majid and he is located of course in Jackson Heights (37th Ave, the Muslim section) in a basement mall filled with greenish fluorescent lighting next to a Bollywood movie/music store. People stared at me with the same blank, yet intense expression I got a lot in India. It is a mix of, "Why are you here?", "Are you going to buy something?", and "Are you going to exploit me, economically?"* I spent three nights in a hospital in Mumbai. I've paid my dues. I order meals by their real names, in Hindi, extra spicy. I am Indian. So naturally I walk around like I'm braided and bindi-ed. Like I'm Kareena Kapoor.
When Majid finally hobbles down the stairs to meet our business, I could barely understand him through his raspy horse voice and thick accent. Somehow I managed though my limited Bengali and straight-up guessing. He actually asked my mother permission when I requested he lower my neck line half an inch. When he offered a pretty low price of 30 dollars, there came a moment where I knew I was supposed to haggle down to 20. I knew all the lines, "Are you crazy?! I could get this down the street for 15!" But instead I just said, "Sure, sounds great." A moment that obliterated any shred of Indian street cred I've accrued. I transitioned from Kareena Kapoor to Jennifer Love Hewitt more awkwardly than a 1970's Bollywood scene change.
You think of someone whiter than Jennifer Love Hewitt.
*I stole this line from Van Wilder 2: The Rise of Taj. When the white preppy Camfordian threatens Kal Penn during a fence-off by saying, "I'm going to do to you what my ancestors did to your ancestors years ago." To which Penn replies, "You're going to exploit me economically?" Great line in an otherwise trite movie.
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